


Living Art

by RoswellSmokingWoman



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, College, First Kiss, First Time Blow Jobs, M/M, Mutual Pining, Sexuality Crisis, Student Will, art class, student hannibal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:20:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25552708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoswellSmokingWoman/pseuds/RoswellSmokingWoman
Summary: Hannibal is a pre-med student at university, finishing up his degree--with only one pesky requirement, an art class. Will is a student trying to get by, with whatever on-campus job he can find. Both find themselves in a Living Art class, Hannibal sitting at the easel and Will one of the models he must draw. They're instantly drawn to each other, but there's one rule they can't violate: No talking to the models.We'll see how long that lasts...
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 7
Kudos: 188
Collections: Hannigram_Reverse_Bang_2020





	Living Art

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is part of the Hannigram Reverse Bang 2020. There is art to go with it, so if you do read this and there is no link to the art yet, it will be added as soon as the artists provide me a link.  
> I want to thank the artists for spending so much time drawing and providing me with such an interesting prompt to write! 
> 
> I hope you all enjoy reading. <3

In the autumn, the campus is unusually bustling—quite different from the somber silence of winter and even spring. Students return to campus, excited for the new year. Even those who aren’t happy to be here, who aren’t looking forward to the fact that classes are beginning again, have some underlying cheer. There’s something achingly wonderful about beginnings. They bring new opportunities. New challenges. New curiosities and interests.

For Hannibal, this is his final beginning as an undergraduate student. He doesn’t feel upset by this. Nor does he have the urgency some senior students have when realizing all the fun’s over. For Hannibal, fun still remains on the horizon. Next year, he would be in medical school. There, the trite and bothersome immaturity of undergraduate education would be behind him. He will say goodbye to each day, never missing the days which will pass. And so, this final year, for Hannibal, is happily here. Finally, here.

With one caveat.

There remains the one class he didn’t want to take, one which doesn’t pertain to his degree. He’d gotten most of his requirements for medical school out of the way as quickly as possible, easily passing his MCAT exams, already having prepared his applications, Johns Hopkins always in his view. But he can’t get there, not before finishing his degree. Which requires one pesky, little class. An annoyance, really. The only class available every semester given his schedule: An art class, taught by a professor who almost notoriously fails each and every one of his students the first time they take it. Hannibal is part of that unlucky handful which are taking it the first time.

But he will not fail.

Failure isn’t an option for Hannibal. He’d never failed at anything before, but the worry coats his skin. It’s odd to think that so close to being done with this degree, that he should be afraid now. He sits in class, in front of an empty easel, watching as the professor shuffles in. The man’s tweed jacket clings to his figure with the desperate hope that a button won’t burst.

“Welcome to ART three-oh-two. I am Professor McLeery. And this is Life Drawing. There’s no better way than to start at the beginning. How does that sound, everyone?” he says, leaning against the chalkboard behind him.

A few students gulp, and others smile. _Been there, done that._ The smiles say. Hannibal remains stoic at his seat, taking the drawing pad from his side and placing it on the easel.

“Ah, a few rules first—before we begin. Very eager are we… Your name.”

“Hannibal Lecter,” he replies, a wry smile spreading across his lips. 

“Very well, Hannibal. A few rules. This is a life drawing class. Our subject will be nude models. I think most of us can handle that. For those of us who can’t, that’s not an option. You should reexamine your level of maturity and decide whether or not it would be appropriate for you to drop this class until you can take it again when you are hopefully more mature. We can always look at the model, and we should try to capture them. We are here to work on our drawing skills, to make life come from a page. We aren’t allowed to touch the models. Their identities will remain anonymous. You are not to find them outside of the class. And, you are not allowed to speak with them. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, professor,” the room responds in unison.

The remainder of the day is spent rehashing these rules so that each and every one of the students understand the responsibility they have in taking this course. Hannibal’s focus blurs as he watches the center of the room, wondering what it would be like to have a model sitting there for him to capture on his oversized sketchpad.

***

Will Graham had never had money, but he had plenty of gumption. Louisiana mud stuck not only to his boots but to the strings of his soul. There’s a look to him, with plaid button-down and frumpy trousers—that says the stick of the swamp isn’t so easy to rub off. Transplanted to the northeast, at a large state school in Maryland, he looks like the dumpy, naïve first-generation college student from a work-with-your-hands family that doesn’t quite fit in. And he doesn’t try to. He goes to his classes and then back to his run-down apartment at the end of the day. And when he’s not in either place, he works. Because what else can he do when his family surely won’t support him?

But this year was a challenge, with on-campus jobs filling up so quickly. There was a position, staring back at him ever time he scrolled through job postings, that no one ever seemed to take. A model for a Living Art drawing class. He’d never been ashamed of his body. Heck, he didn’t even think much about it. It got him from one place to the other, and his hands worked well on the shipyards of his youth. He supposed he doesn’t look too bad, so applied and got the job.

Money is money, right?

***

Another day, another ill-fitting suit worn by the art professor. He’s unsettled, nervous. The twitch of his hands gives it away. He begins with a hum, pursing his lips. The rules have been established; the hum says.

“Today we will have only one model. He’ll be here shortly,” Professor McLeary says.

The professor stands at the helm of the classroom, breathing in and out. His portly midsection follows his breath. With each exhale, the clock ticks, each second seemingly louder in the silence of the room. Hannibal searches for his pencil just as the model enters the room.

Covered in only a bathrobe, he steps in, bare foot meeting carpeted floor. He turns, looking in Hannibal’s direction, his lips spreading to form a shy smile. Hannibal shifts in his seat, taking in the pure beauty of his form. He aches to capture it on the page—he would have to. _For the class_. 

The man’s jawline is masculine near perfection, eyes a striking blue with eyelashes that even Aphrodite would envy. _Don’t touch._ Hannibal tells himself. He doesn’t like being told what to do, but he must pass this class. And so he will, this one time, follow instruction for the sake of a grade.

_What is his name?_

The question bothers him immediately, wanting to know the identity of the stranger who is stripping in front of him, bathrobe falling to the floor. It the supple fabric cascades downwards, hugging his ankles, leaving the man standing there. Hannibal’s eyes meet his slender frame as he examines him from head to toe. His heartbeat quickens in his chest immediately.

_It’s just a flight of fancy. It’ll pass._

The man sits in a chair in the center of the room so that all can see him. Hannibal feels the urge to cover him back up with the robe so that no one else could see him. Only his eyes could be privy to this living artwork before him. The others wouldn’t worship him the way Hannibal could hold him the way Hannibal could—

_Stop._

Is lust worth more than a degree? Hannibal knows it’s not. He should be better, do better. And so, he picks up his pencil and begins to draw the man. The first lines are jagged, but Hannibal manages to save them anyway. He wills his hand to stop trembling, but his hand is intent on fumbling through nervousness.

_If only beauty could have a name._

***

The job is fucking unsettling, Will decides when he comes home from his first day. There was a long talk to make sure that Will is mentally prepared for this job—that he is comfortable with the thought of being stared at and drawn for an hour or so a couple of times a week. He surely thought he was.

_“I’m not gay,”_ he thinks. The words are raw and desperate, but mostly afraid.

He’d never gone to church or even touched a bible, but there was that hushed tone of judging in his youth from a community that saw this particular condition of being as an affliction. A sign pasted on the soul with superglue that needs to be pried off, even if it rips the soul apart in the process. And so, he’d never looked at a man or a woman—because that was easier.

It was easier to be this amorphous sludge of a being, working as a machine on a shipyard, than to be a breathing, needing sack of flesh. But the blond-haired man with brown eyes so entrancing—he couldn’t be ignored. The moment Will’s robe dropped down, he stared out at the classroom instinctually to check as if to say: _Is this okay?_

But his eyes met for the briefest second with the unnamed man, before both looked away. No one needed to tell Will that the other man had seen him, had taken in his naked form from head to toe, and wanted him. Will is particularly talented in nudging out other’s thoughts and emotions. It isn’t a gift.

He is burdened with knowledge that burns into his brain like an iron rod. No matter how much he tries, he can’t unsee that gaze. He can’t unsee that want. For a split second, Will Graham felt the twitch of humanity pump through his soul. Desperately, he jumps into the shower to rub it off. But like the Louisiana mud, he can’t scrub this human condition out of him. He rubs until his flesh is raw and bleeding, until he collapses onto the cold tile of the shower floor and cries into his chest.

***

It’s a passing grade, on his first drawing. Hannibal should be satisfied with it, but ever the perfectionist he can’t accept the C in bold on his computer screen. Others have fared worse, no doubt. But it is insulting, that his interpretation of the nameless model is no better than mediocre. It irritates him that he couldn’t have done better, so he will do better. There are sessions outside of class, formally optional but informally required. With the C, he knows he has to go. Moreover, the blue-eyed man will be there waiting to be drawn. And he would do anything to drink up the sight of him, again.

He jumps out of his seat, grabs his sketch pad, and makes his way over to the art building. The room is empty, only a single light on. He’s the first one here, only a few minutes early. He takes a seat in the second row where he can see the model perfectly but not look overzealous.

Will walks into the room, stopping just after the doorframe to find the same man that has occupied his thoughts since his first day on the job. An awkward silence occupies the room, where they watch each other, Will’s face flat and Hannibal’s eyes unrevealing. Nervousness bubbles up in Will’s stomach, debating whether or not he should dare to ask: _What’s your name?_

Another student enters the room, sitting down next to Hannibal. Her presence pierces their tense bubble. Another model comes and she stands next to Will. Will turns to the other model, clearing his throat.

“Would you mind if I oversee today and you model?” Will asks

“Had one too many tacos from the food court today?” she jokes. “It’s alright. I felt a little anxious with the other class, too. Next week it’s your turn.”

They repeat the rules from the class as an overview before the girl, tall and thin with raven black hair, leaves to change behind the curtain in the corner of the room. Hannibal hadn’t expected this turn of events, hadn’t expected for there to be another model. Nevertheless, he draws her carefully on the page, sneaking peaks at Will whenever he can.

***

Will and the woman leave the room together after everyone else had already left. They turn off the lights and part together, though not intentionally. She sticks to his side, waiting until they’re out of the building to talk.

“I’m Beverly,” she says. There’s a gruffness to her voice, one that fits her I-don’t-give-a-fuck attitude.

“Shouldn’t we try to remain anonymous?” Will asks.

“Who cares? It’s lonely being a nude model at university. Can’t talk to anyone in the class. Hopefully, we won’t see anyone from class, either. Can you imagine how awkward it would be?”

“Yeah, it would be…” Will says, thinking of the blonde-haired man in the second row. “I’m Will, by the way.”

“I figured at least we can bond over the weirdness. No one else has to know?”

“No one else has to know.”

And so, Will parts from Beverly after they exchange numbers, heading back to his apartment. He has no plans to text her, but by the time he gets into his pajamas and crashes into his bed, he already has a text from her.

“Unavoidable, I guess,” it says.

Just beneath it is a picture, blurry and dark, but it’s the same sandy hair that belongs to the one person he’d rather not think about.

“Run,” he sends back, tossing his phone under the pillow.

***

_Blessed be the D_ , Hannibal thinks. It mocks him on his computer screen—and of course he would receive a grade worse than before. After all, he had drawn the woman when his hand longed to draw someone else. At least, technically, it is a passing grade.

There are comments about the shading, about the positioning, and how though it may look neat, the drawing lacks the quality of jumping off the page. Hannibal accepts these critiques, but with his thoughts consumed by a man he doesn’t know, he doesn’t care to fix these issues.

What began as Hannibal trying to draw him, quickly developed into the need to know him. For a time, he hadn’t thought of John’s Hopkins or his physical chemistry course. Hannibal wakes up today, on the third week of class, hoping that he will see _him_ again.

Last week, he hadn’t come to model for the class. He’d only come to the extra session, and even then, he was barely there. A shell. Hannibal longs to reach in and pull out the man underneath the skin—he’s convinced there’s more beauty to be found inside.

He hears through the grapevine that the other model is throwing a party—and he’s abiding by the rules if he goes there with no intention of talking to her. If the other man were to be there, however, it would only be a coincidence should they bump into each other.

And so, Hannibal dresses for his first college party in a pair of navy-blue trousers, a white button-down, and tan leather shoes with matching belt.

***

Will arrives at Beverly’s house late with a bottle of vodka in hand. Immediately, loud music bombards his ears. He regrets coming the moment he steps through the threshold, Beverly enveloping him in a hug.

“I was worried you wouldn’t want to come,” she shouts over the noise.

“I promised,” he says, handing her the bottle of vodka. “In case you’re running low.”

She leaves him after that, disappearing into the crowd. He’s alone in the middle of the room, pushing through bodies. It must be easier with a friend, Will thinks, than all by yourself where you’re forced to stare at all the other people. Drunk. Dancing. Living the life of a young twenty-something-year-old.

He manages to make his way upstairs where it’s quieter and not a soul can be found. He sits on the top step, scrolling through his phone. It seems like the whole biology department is here, minus the professors of course. If he stays an hour, Beverly can’t be upset with him—so he remains at the top of the staircase, minding his own business.

***

It’s not that Hannibal dislikes parties. In fact, he’s a huge fan of parties. Rather, he prefers small dinner parties among friends over whatever this is. Pure chaos in every corner, Hannibal feels swallowed up by an ocean of booze and sweat. The scent alone makes his stomach unsettled. Efficiently, he makes a b-line for the drinks table. Two screwdrivers, and away he goes.

He looks at the drinks in his hands, realizing he’s being hopeful. Frowning, he turns around to put the drink back but feels a poke on his shoulder. Standing in front of him is the other model, arms crossed with the dumb drunk look of a matchmaker on her face.

“I think the person you’re looking for is at the top of the staircase,” she says.

“What do you mean?” Hannibal asks.

She stumbles away, giggling, without a true response. With this new information, Hannibal heads up the staircase. As she had said, he finds the other man sitting there on his phone, frowning to himself. With the drink in his hand, Hannibal realizes quickly that he hadn’t thought this far. He’d only dreamed of seeing him. Execution quickly becomes an issue as he stands, debating. Will decides for him, looking up, and exhaling a shaky breath.

“Hi,” Will says.

Hannibal hands Will the drink and sits down next to him on the step. He should respond, he knows, but he takes a long sip instead. The taste of store-bought orange juice meets his tongue, bitter and unsatisfying, but he gulps it down for the sake of freedom from his nerves. Will follows, drinking from the cup. He thinks he should know better; that you should never take a drink from a stranger. Having seen him in class so many times, Will feels he knows him. A part of him thinks if he’s wrong, Beverly would beat the shit out of this stranger. But Will doesn’t think he’s wrong.

Channeling the zealous habit of his father, Will downs the entire cup quickly before placing it on the ground. He’d never done this before.

“What do you say to a stranger who’s seen you practically naked?” Will says. 

“I haven’t a clue,” Hannibal responds. “My name is Hannibal.”

“ _Hannibal,”_ Will thinks.

Nausea creeps up into his throat quickly, the vodka bubbling back up with revenge. Punishment for breaking the rules: Don’t talk with the models. Will runs down the staircase and pushes through the crowd, just in time to empty the contents of his stomach behind the bush next to the door. He doesn’t go back, leaving Hannibal alone and confused at the top of the staircase.

***

The third week of class Will returns to model. He had debated, after the party, whether or not he should come—but he can’t live without pay. He enters the classroom space through the curtain in the righthand corner of the room, dressed in his silk robe. Hannibal is there, eyes down gazing at his sketchpad. Will is almost disappointed to not see those eyes.

Nevertheless, he undresses, left in only his underwear. Today he lies on the ground, left side pressed firmly against the floor and right hand resting against his thigh. The students shouldn’t talk to him first, but silence in the room gets to him. It’s as if the eyes themselves peeking over their easels make a raucous. So, he does what he never expected himself to do. He begins to talk.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here last week. I was feeling a bit under the weather.”

He doesn’t know what he expects, but he would prefer anything than the silence of the room. Hannibal waits, watching the fly in the room buzz towards the professor who swats it away. It’s then that Hannibal gives Will a knowing, reassuring wink.

“Don’t feel bad,” Hannibal mouths.

***

Would it be bad to be friends with Hannibal? Will thinks to himself, staring out of the window of his apartment with his knees pressed to his chest. _Friends_ seems simple and fun, but Will knows deep down that neither of them would be capable of friendship when Hannibal’s eyes alone hint at something more. So then, would it be easier for Will and Hannibal to never meet outside of the classroom once the course is over? Time would pass, and surely, he’d forget the student he knows and doesn’t know at the same time.

There’s a knock on his door, and he gets up to see who it is. He hadn’t expected anyone, but he sees Beverly through the peephole. He scratches his head, wondering if he should pretend that he isn’t home—but he there’s an itch that tells him Beverly already knows that he’s home, so he opens the door.

“You left my party,” she says, pushing past him. “It took me a while to find out where you live. Seems you’re almost unheard of on campus.”

“And I want it to stay that way,” Will says.

“You looked sick. I just wanted to make sure you were okay, and you weren’t answering my texts.”

“We barely know each other, Bev. I drank too much. I went home.”

“It wouldn’t have anything to do with that preppy looking kid from the class?” she asks, smiling.

Will sighs, going into the kitchen to get something. Anything to drink. Beverly follows closely behind, waiting to hear his answer. She taps her foot against the floor, eyeing him curiously. He’s got his panties in a twist, and it amuses her to no end.

“You’ve got it that bad, huh?” Beverly laughs.

“I’m not, uh,” Will fumbles for words, his cheeks heating up. “I’m not interested in men.”

“Sorry, my mistake,” she says.

Will sees the bottle of half-empty red wine, but there’s a prickling numbness in his hands. Why should it feel so wrong to say that? The words leave a bad taste in his mouth, bitter and dry. He looks at Beverly, her sad eyes meeting his.

They’ve barely met, and only had a few conversations but it doesn’t matter that they aren’t close. She is here, and maybe that’s enough reason for Will to let his walls down. He forces himself to smile, but it’s the pitiful kind of smile that speaks of desperation. For a lie to be the truth. He doesn’t need to say it, and Beverly doesn’t need to hear it. She only holds him while he cries, the refrigerator blowing cold air onto his skin.

“It’s okay,” she shushes. “It’ll be alright.”

And Will wants to believe that that’s true.

***

The evening sessions only come once a week, and Hannibal had been to each one thus far. It’s surprising to Will then, when Hannibal doesn’t come to today’s evening session. He’d already promised Beverly he’d strip nude this time, and he keeps that promise. But he can’t ignore that it feels different, to be naked in a room without Hannibal there to see him.

The hours pass slowly, Beverly pointing a laser pointer to different areas of his body. Will isn’t quite sure what she’s said or what’s being pointed out; he remains in his position, eyes tracking the movement of the clock’s hands.

When the clock strikes ten, Will lifts himself up and dresses in the robe, purple silk hugging his skin. He realizes, for the first time, he’d never felt something so luxurious in his life before university. He’d never indulged in something soft and seemingly _feminine_. He realizes it’s not feminine, or wrong. He’d only worn it as a necessity before because of this job, but now he wishes to have on at home for himself. And, most importantly, he doesn’t feel ashamed to want this. Not now. Now dressed, he walks by Beverley’s side. She nudges him playfully but frowns when he doesn’t react.

“Earth to Graham,” she whispers into his ear. “What are you thinking about?”

“Bathrobes,” Will says, shrugging.

Beverly pauses for a moment, questioning if he’s being serious, before realizing he is. Whimsically, authentically serious. She bursts out in a fit of laughter, stopping in her tracks.

“You are the strangest person I’ve ever met. Seriously. Bathrobes?”

“I’m a man of simple pleasures. So yeah, bathrobes.”

They continue on to the dining hall, a place Will hadn’t been since his first semester nearly three years ago. It seems odd that he’d be back again, after moving off-campus and after trying so hard to avoid the crowds. Beverly swipes him in, using a guest pass. It occurs to him that he’d never find Hannibal here, in the dining hall, subjecting himself to what even Will could barely call food. The thought disappoints him.

Beverly snags them a few slices of pizza, realizing Will’s thoughts had crossed this dimension and entered another. He blindly follows her to some nearly empty table and eats the first few bites of pizza without realizing that the hot pizza is burning his tongue.

“Thinking about bathrobes, again?” Beverly asks.

Will shakes his head, putting the pizza back down on the plate.

“What are you going to do about it?” she asks.

“About him?” Will laughs. He rubs his hands over his face, mulling over possibilities. “We aren’t even supposed to talk.”

“Unless you approach him first. And then maybe keep it on the down-low until the semester is over. It is your choice if you want to get to know him better.”

“You are the worst influence,” Will says. “But I’ll think about it.”

***

Will does see Hannibal, randomly, one day outside of the Living Arts class. He’s sitting under the tree wearing a thick sweater, nose buried in a book. Unsure of what to do, Will watches from afar. What’s the worst that could happen? Hannibal wouldn’t be interested, maybe. In the greater scope of things, Will knows it shouldn’t be such a big worry. But with matters of the heart, it doesn’t matter that rejection is a temporary pain. He decides that not acting would be worse.

“Hannibal,” Will says as he approaches him.

Hannibal looks up from out of his book, lips parted in surprise, eyes stuck on Will Graham the moment he spots him. He pats the grass next to him, motioning for Will to join him.

“I never got the chance to learn your name,” Hannibal says.

Will clears his throat, smiling demurely, “I’m Will. Will Graham.”

Will peers over the book to see what Hannibal’s reading, but he can’t read the words. He realizes it’s written in another language, and it should make sense that Hannibal doesn’t necessarily want to read in exclusively English. He has an academic aura to him, a bit pretentious but not revoltingly so.

“The Divine Comedy,” Hannibal says. “In Italian. I spent a few years in Italy, with my Aunt and Uncle, after they’d adopted me.”

“Adopted?” Will asks.

“My parents and sister passed away when I was young. Car accident.” Hannibal stares off into the distance, aware he’d never mentioned it to anyone else before. He hadn’t thought on the subject for quite some time, buried by his studies.

“My mom left when I was young. I grew up with my dad, who wasn’t really there most of the time. It’s not the same, but I kind of understand,” Will says. He pauses, thinking. “Your accent isn’t Italian.”

“I was born in Lithuania. I lived in Florence and Paris, and nowhere. I suppose my accent doesn’t fit in any box.”

“I like it, though,” Will says and then, “You noticed me in class.”

“You’re difficult to not notice. You’re different, from everyone else here. You think it’s a bad thing. It’s not, though.”

“How did you figure all that out? From drawing me?” Will laughs.

“I just know.”

“I just know you, too. You’re not so different from me in a lot of ways, I think.”

They remain at the tree for hours, talking and laughing, realizing that it’s true—despite their different upbringings on different continents, they share many similarities. They don’t need to talk about it, to know they both have the strange, lonely ability to understand others in just a few moments. It doesn’t feel so lonely, anymore, having found each other.

***

Hannibal’s apartment is large, unusually so for an undergraduate student. Whereas Will has a measly studio, barely large enough for him alone, Hannibal as a comfortable two-bedroom, with large kitchen and personal office space. Hannibal must have money. Not pocket money. No, the kind of money whose number is easy to say but difficult to imagine. The realization is distinctly uncomfortable for Will, who'd grown up without many things. Noticing his discomfort, Will ushers Hannibal in, hand on the small of Will’s back.

Will stops walking altogether halfway passed the kitchen, knees locked, arms shaking. He knows it looks bad, knows he should stop, but hell—he can’t. Bile creeps up into the back of his throat and stays there stubbornly. Waiting.

“I’m not—I don’t have money, Hannibal. I’m a poor kid from Louisiana, nude modeling for a Living Art class. I don’t even like rich people. How do they get the money in the first place? And I know, that’s not you. You’re not bad or corrupt. But I’m uncomfortable. What if you have wealthy friends? I’m an embarrassment. Fuck, even normal people think I’m strange. What am I doing here, I—”

Hannibal doesn’t let Will go any farther, taking him by the sides of his face and pressing his lips against Will’s. The kiss is shy and soft; Hannibal explores just how far Will would let him go. Will lips part, needing this. He closes his eyes, leaning in, libs numb and delicate, but Hannibal doesn’t mind. He can tell that it’s Will’s first kiss from the tender insecurity of the kiss, but Will allows Hannibal to take it further. He wants Hannibal to take it farther, feeling Hannibal’s tongue slide in passed his lips, passed his teeth, until their tongues meet. Hannibal tastes of whiskey and chocolate, old cigars and summer cherries. And Will can’t get enough of him. All too soon, Hannibal’s lips leave Will’s cold and alone in the seemingly frigid air of Hannibal’s apartment.

“Is there really a reason to worry about all that? I like you all the same, Will,” Hannibal says with a kind of confidence that makes Will’s knees weak.

All Will can do is nod.

***

Ten weeks into the fall semester, Hannibal finally started seeing B’s and A’s from his Living Art Class. He was honestly shocked at first to see the change, but when he considers that he’s seeing quite a lot of one of the subjects—he realizes he shouldn’t be too surprised. He knows every line of Will’s face, every mark and freckle. He knows the veins on Will’s hands and how they pop out whenever he’s particularly upset about something. And those lips—he’s memorized every crevice, every gleam they take on.

And Will, Will adores practicing with Hannibal on the weekends where Hannibal sits in his bed and Will lays on his carpet, completely nude and vulnerable. Thinking on it, Will wonders why they hadn’t, even though Will knows this is new territory.

“Do you find me attractive, Hannibal?” Will asks one Sunday evening, laying on the carpet with a glass of wine next to him.

Hannibal smiles, amused. “Do you have to ask?”

“I’ve been lying on your carpet for weeks, and you’ve never—”

Hannibal moves from the bed, getting down on his hands and knees, crawling to Will with hunger in his eyes. “I only wanted to make sure you were comfortable. Every inch of you is divine, darling.”

With Will’s body pressed up against Hannibal’s, Will feels a need he’d never felt before, precum coating his cock. It’s new and nervous, but he wants to feel more of this. Wants to feel Hannibal, to be claimed by Hannibal in a way no one else has ever claimed him before.

“Just tell me what you want, and I’ll do it—anything for you,” Hannibal growls low into Will’s ear.

“I want you to take your clothes off so I can see you.”

Hannibal removes his clothes slowly, maintaining eye contact with Will’s ocean eyes. He licks his lips, removing his boxer-briefs. Will inhales in shock, Hannibal’s erect cock jutting out. Slowly, Will gets onto his knees, looking up at Hannibal, and begins to suck it slowly. He kisses the tip first, batting his eyelashes, before inserting it into his mouth, slowly, brushing his tongue over the back of his cock. Hannibal closes his eyes, groaning.

“I want to pleasure you, too,” he manages after moments pass almost too quickly.

Will smiles, lying down and waiting. Hannibal brings his mouth to Will’s cock, sucking it carefully and slowly. Will buries his hands in Hannibal’s hair, eyes rolling into the back of his head. He wants to last longer and for it to go further but, the longer Hannibal’s mouth is on him, the more control Will loses. He lets go, crying out, screaming.

“Hannibal.”

***

Up until this point, Will and Hannibal had avoided public forays. Mostly because of their art class—but Hannibal is feeling brave today. The fifteenth week of the semester was over, with only finals weeks remaining. He could wait another week, but in all truth, he can’t.

He takes Will to a dimly lit restaurant in the middle of the city. They’re seated in a nearly private booth. Hannibal reaches out for Will’s hand, holding it tightly as he reads over the menu. Awe-struck at Hannibal’s honeyed eyes peeking out over the menu, Will can only stare.

“Do you know what you want?” Hannibal asks. 

“Just order for me,” Will says.

The waitress returns with her notepad, watching them expectantly. Hannibal orders quickly in French, not giving Will the chance to understand. The waitress leaves with a nod but quickly comes back with a bottle of champagne and two glasses.

“For the happy couple,” she says.

Having taken a sip, Will eyes Hannibal curiously. “What did you say to her?”

“You wouldn’t have had the chance to hear—I left a few instructions when I made our reservation.”

“You shouldn’t pamper me. I might get spoiled,” Will teases.

“I like to spoil you,” Hannibal says.

Will can feel Hannibal’s foot nudge his playfully under the table, and he nearly loses it there. He could abandon dinner and their romantic night. He would be perfectly happy to go home, to have Hannibal hold him, and remind him of everything he’d been missing in his life.

The evening passes quickly, dessert already on the table. Will opens his mouth, closing his eyes as Hannibal feeds him a piece of torte au chocolat. The thick, fudgy consistency of it melts on his tongue. He opens his eyes, finding Hannibal dreamy-eyed and watching him.

“I love you, Will,” Hannibal says, putting the spoon down.

“You what?” Will says, heart pounding in his chest.

“I love you,” Hannibal repeats.

Will hadn’t thought about it before. He had this attachment to Hannibal, this need itching inside of him. From the moment they’d met. He’d realized himself through Hannibal. Hearing the words, Will doesn’t need time to mull over how he feels. In fact, he doesn’t think. He just says what he knows, no more and no less.

“I love you too, Hannibal.”

Across from them in the restaurant is the Living Art professor and his wife, watching the pair from afar. But just like in class, he honors the rule: Don’t talk to the models. And so, he doesn’t, knowing that sometimes exceptions have to be made.


End file.
